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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27860222">These Four Walls</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glitter_Bug/pseuds/Glitter_Bug'>Glitter_Bug</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Stranger Things (TV 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Billy Hargrove Needs Love, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mostly fluffy anyway!, Mr and Mrs Harrington are actually decent, Self-Indulgent, Swearing, and around</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 09:07:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,977</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27860222</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glitter_Bug/pseuds/Glitter_Bug</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Billy wouldn't miss Cherry Lane.<br/>Most of the objects in the house had left imprints on him in ways he'd rather forget, and anything of value had been safely stashed with Steve months ago.<br/>So he couldn't wait to slam that door for the last time and never look back.</p><p>But.</p><p>Steve's house was harder to leave behind.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>73</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>These Four Walls</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>An absolutely self-indulgent ramble.<br/>I just wanted to play around with giving Billy some happy family time in Hawkins AND explore some supportive Harringtons.<br/>So...here you go.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They were going.</p><p>Finally getting out of Hawkins.</p><p>Him and Steve together.</p><p>They had a house, all their own.</p><p>Not quite a sea view, but a sea smell when the wind was right.</p><p>One bed, one bath.</p><p>Small, cosy and</p><p>Theirs.</p><p><br/>And Billy wouldn't miss Cherry Lane. </p><p>Most of the objects in the house had left imprints on him in ways he'd rather forget, and anything of value had been safely stashed with Steve months ago. </p><p>So he couldn't wait to slam that door for the last time and never look back.</p><p>But.</p><p>Steve's house was harder to leave behind.</p><p>Steve's mom had insisted they take as much fancy crockery and cookware as they could cram in the car, and Billy knew that she’d be sending more and more boxes along for the next few weeks.</p><p>
  <em> A few things, to get you two started. Help you out in the early days.  </em>
</p><p>But that wasn’t what he was going to miss. </p><p>It was the bricks and mortar. </p><p>The rooms.</p><p>The memories they held. </p><p> </p><p>"We'll be back for Christmas," Steve had said with a roll of his eyes, "It's not like we'll never see it again."</p><p>But Billy still insisted on giving the place a proper goodbye. </p><p>He knew you had to. That you shouldn't just leave without saying something.</p><p>Shouldn't assume you could come back and find things as you left them.</p><p>Waiting for you.</p><p>Things don’t always stay.</p><p>So off he went.</p><p>Hand in hand with Steve, taking one final tour of his favourite places.</p><p> </p><p>Steve's bathroom</p><p>It was where it started.</p><p>Where <em> they </em> started.</p><p>So Billy starts it there too.</p><p>"Remember when," he let his fingers drift along the sink, "you found me? That night?"</p><p>Billy stumbling at the side of the road.</p><p>A twisted ankle where he’d fallen wrong.</p><p>A bloodied nose, a black eye and a couple of cracked ribs.</p><p>Harsh words ringing in his ears.</p><p>Nowhere left to go when he was caught like a deer in the headlights of a red Beemer.</p><p>Picked up and patched up under Steve's expert care. Put back together, piece by piece. Tender fingers stroking over tender places, healing everywhere they touched. </p><p>"First piece of good luck I'd ever had," Billy looked up at the mirror, at the two of them together, "You being out there, finding me." </p><p> </p><p>The guest room next.</p><p>A quick visit.</p><p>He'd only spent one night here.</p><p>Half of one, technically.</p><p>But it had meant something, the ease at which Steve offered it. </p><p>The security of a door which locked from the inside and the nicest sheets that he'd ever seen, expensive cotton going to waste on a bed no one used. </p><p>Not even him. In the end.<br/>Not when there was a better offer next door. </p><p>Egyptian cotton no match for Hawkins skin.<br/><br/></p><p>On they go. </p><p>Billy retracing his footsteps.</p><p>Out of the guest room, padding across soft carpet and into softer arms.</p><p> </p><p>Steve's bedroom went without saying.</p><p>But Billy wanted to say it. </p><p>Wanted to rhapsodise about the nights and days spent on plaid sheets.</p><p>And the sex. </p><p>Of course the sex.</p><p>Two teenage boys in a bed together with hormones and hands and mouths and time. </p><p>The stain still on the pillow from that first night, when Steve’s tongue reopened the split on Billy’s lip.</p><p>Stubborn. Indelible. Undeniable. </p><p> </p><p>But it was more than that.</p><p>It was falling asleep next to Steve. Wrapped up in Steve. Surrounded by him. Entangled and entwined.  </p><p>The mornings when he would wake in Steve's arms. Safe. No yelling or banging on the door to rouse him, just the sunlight filtering through the curtains and the breathiest of snores ruffling his hair.</p><p>Mornings when he didn't have to jump straight out of bed but instead could lie there, tracing lazy patterns on Steve's skin, watching the flicker of his eyelids as he started to wake, see the smile growing as he realised Billy was there. </p><p>A smile just for Billy. Because of Billy.</p><p>
  <em> "Morning, sunshine." </em>
</p><p>He could hear it every day and never be tired of it.</p><p>He <em> would </em> hear it every day.</p><p> </p><p>They made quick work of the downstairs rooms. </p><p> </p><p>The kitchen was easy.</p><p>The burnt toast when Steve had been distracted by Billy’s mouth.</p><p>The burnt bacon when he’d been distracted by Billy’s hands.</p><p>The full cups of coffee, left to go cold when they realised that they weren’t that hungry after all.</p><p>The smoke alarm that called them back, charred remains of eggs in a pan they'd thrown away, hidden right at the bottom of the bin.</p><p>"Still owe you a pan," Billy smirked.</p><p>“Still owe you that breakfast,” Steve countered, “First morning in the new place. I promise."</p><p> </p><p>The dining room was less obvious. </p><p>“Our anniversary?” Steve guessed, and Billy thought back.</p><p>The table, set for two- Grandma Harrington’s finest crockery. The crystal glasses, the kind that rang out when Billy tapped them. Heavy crockery. White linen. Lit candles.</p><p>The good wine.</p><p>Steve’s cooking. Much less burnt when Billy stayed away.</p><p>Nothing gourmet- sauces from a jar- but everything made with love. With care.</p><p>The dessert that Billy <em> knew </em>was his mom’s apple pie. Knew it from the first bite.</p><p>Remembered the little recipe card that he’d given to Steve for safekeeping. The one he’d never dared try to replicate.</p><p>It had been heaven.</p><p>But.</p><p>No.</p><p>“The family dinners, actually.” Billy explained, leaning back against the bare oak table. “Talking with your Mom, about her charity stuff, all those causes. Think she was trying to save the whole damn town."</p><p>He stops then, voice a little shaky. </p><p>Steve comes to stand next to him, pulls him close as he continues,</p><p>"And those...discussions with your Dad," </p><p>Because Richard Harrington liked to talk. Proper talk.</p><p>About issues and events and headlines. </p><p>Steve had always complained about it. Hated the formality when he’d rather grab a pizza and slob out in front of the television. Got antsy with the conversations, the questions, the rapid fire discussion.</p><p><br/>But Billy had loved it.</p><p>Being listened to.</p><p>His voice being encouraged. The more vocal, the better because Richard Harrington lived for a debate.</p><p>Billy had struggled at first, to contradict, to push, to make his case.</p><p>
  <em> Yes, sir, you're right, sir, I'm sorry, sir. </em>
</p><p>But Richard had coaxed, had prised out Billy's opinions and held them up to the light. </p><p>Let them shine.</p><p>"Hadn't thought of it like that, Billy. You make a good point." </p><p>The two of them staying at the table long after the plates were cleared because it wasn't just about the food.</p><p>It was about family.</p><p> </p><p>And that led Billy to one more room.</p><p>One more memory.</p><p>Up the stairs once more. Pausing on the landing just outside Steve’s parents’ bedroom.</p><p>Steve stayed quiet. Confused. </p><p>And Billy hesitated.</p><p>Remembered that night<br/><br/></p><p>Remembered the shock of stumbling to Steve's, only to find Steve's car gone, only one light on in a window that had never been lit before.</p><p>Remembered standing on the driveway and blinking away tears of frustration, of desperation when,</p><p>The door opened. </p><p>Not Steve.</p><p>Close, though.</p><p>The same shining hair. Longer, a little curlier, just as striking.<br/>The eyes, just as big, as brown and with the same way of looking at Billy like she could see right through him.</p><p>"He's out with his father," that warm voice, the hint of a European accent that Billy never could pin down, even when his ears weren't ringing.</p><p>“Dinner. Boy talk." </p><p>She laughed, and it seemed to flow towards him as a golden haze. <br/><br/></p><p>She was in a robe,</p><p>Silk, elegant.</p><p>Hair still up in curls,</p><p>Beautiful. </p><p>Standing in the doorway,</p><p>Alone.</p><p>Eyes on him.</p><p>And Billy had felt sick.</p><p>Hadn’t wanted to taint the one safe place he had.</p><p>His sanctuary.</p><p>And he wouldn't.</p><p>He couldn't. </p><p>But.</p><p>He'd know that she'd tried.</p><p>He'd always know it.</p><p>Because he knew how this went.<br/><br/></p><p>And then it</p><p>Hadn't.</p><p>She didn't. </p><p>Instead, she'd taken a step forward. Enough to see him in the porch light. That glow that made everything look worse. Darkened the bruises and shone off the blood, the tears.<br/><br/></p><p>He always knew when Steve noticed. How his fingers would flutter, how he'd hold himself back from touching. How his brow furrowed for a split second, a flash of fury aimed outwards, beyond Billy, so piercing that Billy wondered if Neil felt it, if he lurched awake in bed clutching at his heart.</p><p>And then everything would settle. </p><p>Action mode. Hero mode.</p><p>The hair isn't the only thing Steve gets from his mother.<br/><br/></p><p>"Billy?"</p><p>The concern always made it hurt worse.</p><p>"I can just...sorry…I'll go." </p><p>But he didn’t move. Couldn’t pick a direction. Didn't have anywhere to go.<br/><br/></p><p>"I've got a cream that might help."</p><p>She hadn’t needed to ask Billy to follow her. </p><p>Steve never did either.<br/><br/></p><p>But it was when they carried on past the bathroom, almost over the threshold into Mr and Mrs Harrington's bedroom, that Billy had faltered.</p><p>He’d pictured the mud, the footprints, the mess his boots would make on that pale pink carpet.</p><p>Couldn’t bring his kind of filth in there.</p><p>"Mrs. Harrington, you don't have to-"</p><p>"Of course I do," </p><p>And she had. </p><p>Had taken his hand so gently and led him in. Sat him down on the padded stool.</p><p>He’d looked around,</p><p>Anything to keep his eyes away from the vanity, the mirror with the pretty lights all around the edge, his reflection.</p><p>Pink. Frills. Silk and lace.</p><p>Delicate and soft.</p><p>And then.</p><p>Her fingers on his face.</p><p>"Steve's told me a lot," she’d said, “not everything.”</p><p>Her lips pressed together as she dabbed at the cut on his eyebrow.</p><p>The sting of the alcohol was nothing compared to the warmth of her fingers cupping his chin, turning his head so slightly into the light. </p><p>“But enough for me to work it out.”</p><p>Billy had flinched at that, ready for whatever came next, but her gentle touch never altered as she applied the cream,</p><p>“He’s so happy with you, Billy. You’re good for him. You <em> love </em> him. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted him to have. All a mother ever wants for her child. Happiness and love.”</p><p>The cap is back on the cream.</p><p>Her fingers are back on his face, cupping his cheek.</p><p>Kind.</p><p>Motherly.</p><p>Loving.</p><p>“All I want for you too.”<br/><br/></p><p>He cried then, </p><p>Hot tears pouring down his face.</p><p>He saw them drip on her hands before he even realised they’d left his eyes.</p><p>She brushed them away so carefully and held him close, one hand in his hair, stroking, holding him until he stopped shaking.</p><p>Moving away only to come back and press a key into his hand,</p><p>Identical to the one Steve had given him after that first night.</p><p>"You come here, Billy, whenever you need. This is your house too, your home."<br/><br/><br/></p><p>And now he was leaving.</p><p>And Billy cried again as he’d cried then.</p><p>Sudden and silent.</p><p>Hadn't even realised until Steve's fingers were wiping the tears away, just as carefully, his voice whispering reassurance, comfort.</p><p>“We’ll be back, baby, I promise. Every holiday, every chance. Bunking up together in that tiny bed, burning the bottom out of another pan, you and my dad arguing over the stock market while me and mom drink all the wine. It’s not gonna go, it’ll all still be here, baby, for years and years.”</p><p>And Billy knew that he was right.</p><p>That this was different.</p><p>That here, he could come back anytime and he’d be welcome. </p><p>Safe. Loved.<br/><br/></p><p>And he’d never had that before.</p><p>But it was...it was good. </p><p>Kinda nice to have something to miss.</p><p>Nicer still to know it wasn’t going to go away.<br/><br/></p><p>He sniffed, pulled back from Steve’s shoulder, “Yeah, it’s not...not long until Christmas is it?” </p><p>And Steve smiled.</p><p>“It’ll fly, baby.” </p>
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